


the act of unwishing

by pyrrhlc



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Tragedy, Barricade Day, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 07:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14848284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhlc/pseuds/pyrrhlc
Summary: Enjolras opens up an old newspaper by accident. It’s been a long while since the last time.





	the act of unwishing

**Author's Note:**

> For Barricade Day 2018. Dedicated most kindly to everyone who managed to drag me into this fandom. (I’m actually here for the happy parts, though no one ever believes me.)

It was an ordinary day, and yet from the moment he woke up Enjolras knew it would be a terrible one. It is never wise, in these situations, to ask ourselves why such days occur. As far as Enjolras was concerned, it was just another unpleasant day, one more dip in the shallow fabric of fragile feeling. Nothing more than that.

He was wrong, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if there were anyone around to contradict him.

He began the day with coffee, and then forgot the coffee, leaving it on the worktop to cool whilst he became distracted by other things. He’d made it his habit, over the past few months, to skim through the various newspaper headlines before calling into work, and this day was no different – Enjolras flicked through the various open tabs of his computer, closing some and opening others, skim-reading only, until his eyes snagged on a block of dark bold lettering. It was the wrong page to open. This wasn’t a new newspaper, but an old one – one he had filed specifically, on request, after asking none of his colleagues to mention it again. That was the way it was with Enjolras. This was how he dealt with tragedy.

Suddenly, he remembered the coffee he’d left in the kitchen – and the date. The first realisation paled in significance to the second. Of course he felt terrible. Today marked the anniversary of an event he’d much rather forget, banish all recordings of – today marked the day that something beautiful had gone inexplicably, tragically awry.

(It marked the anniversary of another date, too, another battle, but Enjolras would never remember that. Not with his emotions so quickly wound and fiercely buried. He’d never realise that it was job to die, his job to lead the charge and leave everything behind. He didn’t realise it because he still lived. This was the tragedy of Enjolras.)

He sighed and looked down at the keyboard, deciding in one moment that both his coffee was ruined and that, despite all other instincts, he would have no choice to reread the article that he himself had typed. (It had earned him a lot of press, that tragedy, both before and after. It was only after that he realised he no longer wanted it, but the byline remained.)

He looked back up at the screen. Mouthed the headline to himself, as he had sworn to himself not to do. Read the first line, and then the next, and then the next. It was a good piece of journalism – one of his finest. Probably it had something to do with him being completely and utterly sincere.

Probably, he thought, it had something to do with all of his friends being dead. Sincerity is a product of tragedy, no matter how few would like to believe it. Enjolras’ eyes skimmed the next few lines. There was no-one to stop him from doing so. He was alone in his flat. Had been alone, permanently, for the last three or so years. Fractures had begun to appear amongst them long before the rally itself went wrong, he thought sadly. If they had been united, if they had been together by the end of it, what might have happened to them then? Maybe things would have turned out differently. He wasn’t one to know.

Or maybe, he reminded himself, they would have turned out exactly the same. You can’t change time. You’re the only one of your friends still living, you’re a journalist, and you can’t change time. These are the only three things in the world that you know for sure.

He switched off the monitor. In his head, the ghostly hand of Combeferre guided him to it. His best friend. His brother in all things. What would he say, if he could see Enjolras now? Not much, that was certain. Not much could be said about nothing at all. Enjolras was a successful journalist, fine. He had been one already, long before his friends had been betrayed by the rubber bullets and the tear gas of those who were meant to protect them in the first place.

(Except, his brain argued with him, you know they were never that. You just hoped. On some basic level, you’ve always hoped your beliefs to be false. They are too terrible to be true. Nobody likes to believe that there is nobody to protect them. Only children protect. And all the children are dead.)

Had Enjolras killed them? Not directly. But he had led them to it, guided them and goaded them, convinced them that what they were doing was for a noble cause. Enjolras wasn’t sure if he knew what it was to be noble anymore. It is hard to remain firm in your own beliefs, when those same beliefs have killed so many. It was almost impossible for Enjolras to remain the man his was after losing the entirety of his friends.

No, he thought, if Combeferre were here (he was not, he never could be) he would have nothing to say to Enjolras. Enjolras was a disappointment to everything that his friends had left behind. Everything they believed in, together, never once finding fault. But then came the cracks, and the fall, and what Enjolras could only assume was a kind of schism. How can you justify violence? came the question. I can’t, came Enjolras’ answer, and he knew it wasn’t an answer worth giving, even then. He should have seen the cracks. He should have called off the rally. But he didn’t. He never could.

He could read the rest of the article, though he didn’t need to. He could print it out, pin it up where it could not be avoided, talk, finally, with his fellow journalists about the tragedy that was slowly setting him alight. Everyone he met could see it from a mile off; everything Enjolras had ever lived through lived in his eyes. The problem was in the living. Fate had chosen wrong, on this occasion. If fate had wanted him to carry on _les amis_ ’ endeavours, it should have picked someone more competent. Someone more capable of doing good – of doing _actual good_ – then he was ever able to do. Someone like Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Feuilly. Éponine. The list could go on – to include everyone he’d ever known, no doubt. Everyone he’d ever cared about. Even Grantaire would have owned up to it – the fact of doing nothing. Enjolras allowed himself the smallest of smiles. The dull ache inside of him was slightly different, when he thought of Grantaire – sharper, much sharper, laced with regret and a sort of idle longing. He wanted all of them back – but Grantaire, he was sure, would be the only one who would forgive him. He had loved him for that. He still loved him – unbearably.

Better to be stone, to be marble, than to feel what he was feeling. Better to have never cared at all, he thought fiercely. But it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. Even after everything, Enjolras could not unwish his friends. Selfish, but necessary. Enjolras held on to the idea of them like a crutch.

He was still staring at the computer screen – blank, but not to him, who could see the full newspaper stretched out in front of him like a gargantuan obituary. It was an obituary, of sorts. The thirteen lives of thirteen people. Privately, Enjolras considered it to be both the luckiest and unluckiest number around.

He held their names to his chest like torches – then abruptly closed the lid. No more of this, he told himself. No more of this sentimentality.

Sit up. Bend down. Flick the computer off at the switch – saves time looking at that old thing again. Stand up. Go and get the coffee. It’s not that cold. You know you can drink it. Move on, move on, move on. Don’t think about the things that have already passed you by.

Don’t think about the ghosts. Looking in the mirror is just the same, anyway, and you’ve never been one for quiet reflection.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave kudos or a comment, including future prompts. I am hungry for prompts.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @ [pyrrhlc](https://pyrrhlc.tumblr.com)!


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